The gym was quiet in the late afternoon, the echo of bouncing balls and shouting teammates replaced by a softer rhythm—the squeak of shoes, the muted thump of a lone volleyball being tossed and set again and again.

The wide court was empty, save for Akaashi Keiji standing at center, his focused expression lit by the fading light streaming through the high windows.

Nationals were creeping closer every day, and though Nekoma had their routines, their scrimmages, their drills, he wanted more. He wanted precision.

An update on his own performance, someone to watch, to adjust the small things he couldn’t see while in motion.

That was why you were here, seated cross-legged near the baseline at first, then standing and stepping closer when he looked your way.

Without words, he tossed you the ball.

The leather slapped against your palms, heavier than it seemed when in the air. He positioned himself, shoulders squared, feet light and ready.

You could see the slight tightness in his stance—he wasn’t relaxed. Not tonight.

You tossed the ball high, not too fast, and watched him move. The way his knees bent just enough, arms rising, hands shaping the perfect cradle.

The set flew cleanly into the air, spinning with control, just as it always did. But Akaashi’s eyes narrowed; he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted better.

Again.

You tossed another ball. He shifted, adjusted, sent it higher this time, sharper, the arc gliding toward the imaginary spiker at the wing. His gaze flicked to you as it landed, silently asking for feedback.

And so it went—repetition after repetition, your arms growing sore from tossing, his movements increasingly sharp, precise, demanding.

He wasn’t chasing the baseline of “good enough.” He was chasing flawlessness.

At one point, sweat dripped down his jaw, his breath leaving in shallow exhales. He ran a hand through his dark hair, strands sticking to his forehead, and glanced at you again.

This time, you stepped forward, gesturing for him to adjust his footwork—he was favoring his right side, just barely, but enough that over the course of a match it would matter.

Akaashi nodded, subtle but firm, and corrected himself on the next attempt. The set flew straighter, smoother, and for the first time that evening, you caught the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes.

Still, he pushed on. Again. And again.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the smack of ball against palms, the squeak of shoes against polished wood, the quiet hum of determination between the two of you.

You were the steady observer, the anchor keeping him from disappearing entirely into his own perfectionism.

Whenever he missed by a fraction—too low, too close, too wide—you pointed it out with a gesture, and he listened, adjusting with a precision that bordered on ruthless.